


there now, steady love

by prouvairing



Series: The Plural of Enjolras [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, No-filter Grantaire, Sloppy Makeouts, Smitten Enjolras, Unnecessary Tinsel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Grantaire?” Enjolras says slowly, quite proud of how marginally steady he manages to sound. Heat already crawls up his neck.<br/>He and Grantaire stare at each other and blush. Fantine has finally gotten ahold of her tinsel boa.<br/>“<i>Fuck</i>,” Grantaire says. “Have my babies.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	there now, steady love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [besanii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/besanii/gifts).



> I know we all like our baby-allergic Enjolras but I've always had a soft spot for baby-whisperer Enjolras, with little siblings he's had to take care of because his parents were all kinds of absent (am I making this sad? It was supposed to be happy fluff D:)  
> Which is why you get three parts!  
> Thank you, as usual, to the lovely Beth, the Combeferre to my Enjolras, co-pilot of our Jaeger and my smutty partner in crime.
> 
> Individual fic titles are from _Look After You_ by The Fray

It is pure chance that Enjolras finds himself in the room when the baby wakes up.

It’s Christmas and Enjolras is wearing entirely too much tinsel for his taste (it’s a single golden boa and a small circlet of red in his hair – fault of Courfeyrac’s surprisingly irresistible puppy eyes). The only reason he’s somewhat okay with it is the one glass of sparkling wine sweetening his mood.

They’re at Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s, it should be noted, and Enjolras is stealing into his best friends’ study to find a book he _knows_ Combeferre owns. He and Grantaire were having an argument, and the latter had shouted “ _Citation needed!_ ” and dammit if Enjolras isn’t gonna give him a bloody citation.

(He’d really much rather not think about the other things he wants to give Grantaire when his lips curl in that self-satisfied smirk. Like a punch. On the mouth. With his mouth).

Enjolras had forgotten that the Pontmercy baby was down in the study for a nap.

He remembers, when the baby makes a tiny gurgling sound, and Enjolras turns to see her huge eyes trained on him. She is quiet, thankfully, very much busy with chewing on her own fist.

The Pontmercy baby is only ten months old, with her mother’s small nose, her father’s hazel eyes, and a mop of golden curls that seems to belong to neither. Her name is Fantine.

Enjolras has done his best to keep away from her, exploiting the fact that everyone assumes he and babies don’t mix. He’s been reluctant to correct that assumption, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who know better, have thankfully been quiet on the matter.

Enjolras hasn’t picked up a baby since his little brother Max stopped being one, but the Pontmercy baby is now making grabby motions towards him and her gurgling is starting to sound distressed.

And with her blonde curls and rosy cheeks she reminds him of his sister Aurelie.

Enjolras eyes the closed door and thinks, _no one has to know._

It’s been a few years, but his hands till know what to do, and Fantine curls up in Enjolras’ arms easily, resting her head on his shoulder. Her soft hair is tickles his chin and she is firm and warm against him. She smells like baby powder, fabric softener and milk.

Enjolras hadn’t even known he’d missed this.

Fantine is content, and there might be a bit of smugness there, on Enjolras’ part. Contrary to popular belief, babies like him. This particular baby is immediately enamored with Enjolras’ tinsel boa.

“What, this little thing?” Enjolras says very seriously. There’s no reason to talk down to tiny humans, he believes. He takes the end of the boa and uses it to tickle Fantine’s belly. “It was a gift, you know. From your Uncle Courf. I’m sure he’ll get you an even prettier one if you ask h– _oh no_ , baby, you can’t eat that.”

The boa dances just out of Fantine’s reach and she giggles.

Enjolras presses a kiss to her head. He’s pretty sure there’s a foolish grin plastered on his lips. No matter. No one’s watching.

Supposedly.

There is a choked noise coming from the door, and when Enjolras looks up, someone is standing there. Someone with inky curls and blue eyes and cheeks that are growing redder by the minute.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras says slowly, quite proud of how marginally steady he manages to sound. Heat already crawls up his neck.

He and Grantaire stare at each other and blush. Fantine has finally gotten ahold of her tinsel boa.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grantaire says. “Have my babies.”

Enjolras’s eyes widen, and this is not what he was expecting at all. Teasing is what he was expecting, maybe that stupidly attractive mocking grin, and a laugh.

Not the way Grantaire’s eyes seem wild as he babbles on, “Or, you know, I could have _your_ babies. Your adopted babies? Why am I employing heteronormative concepts of parenthood? I’m going to shut up now.”

True to his words, Grantaire shuts up. Fantine is about to attempt to eat tinsel again, and Enjolras’ hands tug it away absent-mindedly.

Enjolras really needs to kiss Grantaire right now.

Enjolras is also holding a baby.

He licks his lips and his voice is not _that_ much higher than normal when he says, “Can we have this conversation when I’m not holding a baby?”

Grantaire seems to be struck by the suggestion. “Wait, you _want_ to have this conversation?”

Enjolras finds himself smiling, slow and promising. “Oh, do I _ever_.”

*

Much, much later, Enjolras isn’t holding a baby anymore and his arms are limp where they wrap around Grantaire’s shoulder, except for the fingers clenched in Grantaire’s hair.

Grantaire’s mouth is lost somewhere around Enjolras’ collarbone and _oh_ – there it is, biting down on the juncture of his shoulder, hot tongue following to soothe the sting.

This isn’t really the conversation he meant to have but it seems this is a night for the unexpected. Enjolras isn’t complaining.

Still, the point has to be made.

“You know this isn’t how we make babies, right?” Enjolras says, and it doesn’t come out quite as snippy as he wanted it. He’s panting way too hard for that.

The wet sound Grantaire makes when he pulls away from his collarbone should be illegal. He makes eye-contact and the blue of his eyes should be illegal too.

“Oh, really?” he says, and he laughs, and it’s _such_ a beautiful sound. Then his hands, from Enjolras’ hips, slide under his thighs. Enjolras gets the hint and allows his legs to be pulled up around Grantaire’s waist. The sound he makes when their hips meet, muffled against Enjolras’ mouth, is beautiful too. “Damn, there goes my plan to get your pants off,” he adds, grinning.

Enjolras doesn’t think he manages to glare quite as well as he meant. His mouth is smiling without his permission.

“Fiend.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, doesn’t stop leaving fleeting, soft kisses that are _never quite enough_. “I can go look up adoption agencies and surrogates right now, if you want.” Despite his words, his hips don’t stop.

Enjolras growls low, tightens his fingers around Grantaire’s curls and pulls him in. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” he hisses.

Grantaire beams and thrusts up, drawing another breathy moan from Enjolras.

He stays.

 


End file.
